His Name Was Death and Hell Followed with Him
by Ithiel Dragon
Summary: Desmond's health is rapidly failing during his incarceration at Abstergo from the use of the Animus, and may just kill him before the Templars get the chance. He's pretty much resigned to his fate, but gets help from a very unexpected source. (Slash. Altair/Desmond)
1. Chapter 1

"I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him..."

**-Book of Revelation 6:8  
**

Chapter 1

As Desmond was ejected from the animus after a long grueling session he was greeted by two very unpleasant surprises. Well, one of them wasn't much of a surprise he supposed. Vidic's loud grating voice dripping with contempt and impatience was pretty much a staple around here.

The old man was arguing with Lucy. Again, not much of a shocker there. Desmond couldn't really tell what it was about this time as he was always a little groggy after spending an extended time in the animus, not to mention he had kind of stopped paying attention to Vidic's ranting a while ago. It probably had to do with the asshole wanting him to spend even _more_ time in the blasted machine and Lucy insisting that he needed a break to rest. This time Desmond couldn't help but agree with her, bringing him back to the other surprise. The intense pounding in his skull that felt like one of the worst hangovers he'd ever had.

"Get up, Mr. Miles and get back to your room." Vidic was snapping at him now. Guess Lucy had won the argument. Though Desmond certainly didn't appreciate how the man's normally nails on chalkboard voice only seemed to increase the pain in his skull due to the extra volume.

Desmond slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the animus. He sat on the edge for a moment, fighting a sudden sense of vertigo and nausea. Thankfully he could hear the sound of Vidic's expensive shoes fading away towards the door. Heard it open and close, leaving him alone with Lucy, and some of the tension in Desmond's shoulders eased a little. Unfortunately it did nothing for his headache.

"Desmond? Are you all right?" Came Lucy's soft voice from behind him. It was concerned and he knew if he turned to look at her there would be sympathy written all over her face. He didn't bother to look at her though as he grated out:

"I'm fine."

She might feel sorry for him, had tried to look out for his well being, and help him as much as she could in her limited capacity but Desmond wasn't feeling very generous at the moment. Right now the last thing he wanted was her sympathy. Sure this whole situation probably could have been a lot worse without her here, and the limited kindness she was able to show him, but what did that matter really in the end? He was still a prisoner and they were probably still going to kill him once they'd gotten what they wanted from him.

"Desmond?" She sounded a little hurt now, and that was all Desmond could take right now. Ignoring the vertigo and the scraping of pick axes in his skull Desmond stood up and walked purposefully towards his 'room' refusing to show any sign of discomfort along the way. A small, somewhat bitter, smile curved his lips in spite of everything as Desmond imagined his ancient ancestor Altair doing something similar.

The guy was always so... stoic. It was kind of creepy really. He'd seen the guy take a knife in the thigh while fighting off more than a dozen guards, and then run up the side of a building without even breaking a sweat. Like he hadn't even felt it.

Yeah, right, was he really comparing himself to Altair now? The guy might have been his ancestor, and Desmond might have been 'living' through Altair's memories these last couple of days with the help of the animus, but they were nothing alike. In fact Desmond felt pathetic by comparison. Altair would never have let himself be captured in the first place, but more than that, he never would have passively gone along with helping Abstergo no matter what the consequences. Altair wasn't afraid of dying, like Desmond was. Altair probably would have found a way to escape a long time ago.

Yup, Desmond was pathetic.

At least he'd made it to his room without assistance. The door slid shut behind him as soon as he stepped over the threshold and Desmond sighed heavily as he leaned back against it, closing his eyes. He toyed briefly with the idea of taking a shower. If there was one bright side about this place, it always had hot water, unlike his little run down apartment. It might even ease some of the tension in his back and shoulders, and ease some of the pounding inside of his skull too if he was lucky.

But after a couple of minutes just standing there, the cold metal door practically the only thing holding him upright, he gave up on the idea. He was too exhausted and he didn't really feel like giving whatever peeping tom was in charge of watching the multitude of cameras in his room a show right now. If he stank when he went back into the animus tomorrow, who really gave a shit. It wasn't like he had anyone to impress, right?

Heaving a sigh at the thought of moving again, even if it was only a few feet over to the bed, Desmond pushed off from the door, stumbling a little over his own feet in an unusual lack of grace. He practically fell into the bed, not really a pleasant experience either given how hard the Abstergo mattress was. Desmond grunted uncomfortably when he landed and threw an arm over his face to block out the light overhead that felt like it was stabbing at his eyeballs with needles. Thankfully he was exhausted enough that sleep came quickly.

* * *

_He was running over the rooftops in Damascus. His breath sounded loud in his ears. His heart beat like a drum against his ribs as he pushed himself faster and faster. Sprinting across the flat surfaces. Leaping across the gaps between the buildings effortlessly. Slowing only occasionally when he had to traverse a narrow beam between spaces too wide to jump across. _

_For once, there were no angry guards chasing close behind him. No shouts to stop. No arrows narrowly missing him as he dodged. He ran simply because he wanted to run. Wanted to feel the cooling air against his face as the hot Syrian sun slowly sank below the mountains. To feel the wind rush over his body like a caress when he leapt. Sometimes he imagined he was not running, but flying. _

_Free._

_When he reached the temple, he began to climb. His muscles burned from the exertion but obeyed him without question as he pulled himself up, and leapt from handhold to handhold. Higher and higher. All the way to the top. The voices of the markets below fading away the higher he climbed. Until the earth seemed farther away than the sky. _

_He reached up to pull himself over the final ledge and a hand caught his own. Desmond looked up, startled, but then relaxed when he saw the familiar hooded face. Even though he could not see the other man's full face in the growing shadows, he saw how the familiar scarred lips quirked up in a smile. Desmond returned the smile, and the strong hand gripping his own helped pull him the rest of the way up._

_He stood next to Altair in the fading light. Gazing out over the beautiful city bathed in colors of pink and gold in the evening light. Neither man spoke for a long time. Not when the first stars began to appear in the navy blue sky. Not when it became so dark he could barely discern the outlines of the buildings below them. The lights of fires and lanterns in the windows beneath them making it almost look like a blanket of stars below them as well as above. Like they were suspended in the middle of space and time. Nothing existing but the two of them._

_Desmond liked it. He didn't want to leave._

_Eventually Desmond heard and felt more than saw Altair shift beside him. Felt the other man moving away. Desmond reached out for him. Feeling the first stirrings of fear inside him. He didn't want to be left up here all alone in the dark. But his hand met nothing but air. _

_"Altair?"_

_Desmond heard the faint rustle of fabric. A scuffle of boot against stone. But that was all. He tried to follow the sound. Still reaching out for the other man, trying to find him in the dark. But when he stepped all his foot met was open air. He screamed then, trying to throw himself back from the edge, but it was already too late. As he started to fall Desmond felt the whisper of fingertips against his own, like someone had tried to reach out, tried to catch him, but again, it was too late. _

_He did not fly. He fell..._

* * *

Altair's eyes snapped open. A cry caught in his throat that thankfully he had not managed to voice.

His heart pounded fast and hard against his ribs. His body was tense as a bow string and covered in a fine sheen of sweat despite the chill in the night air. His fingers clutched at the sweat dampened sheets tangled around his body, pulling almost tight enough to rip the fabric.

Another dream...

Slowly Altair released his strangle hold on the sheets, pushing them aside as he sat up. He shoved his damp hair back away from his face and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Did this several more times as his heart slowed to a more natural rhythm. He lifted his head to stare out the window. It was almost as dark as it had been in the dream, but the cool moonlight spilling in through the window was more than enough to see by once his eyes began to adjust. It was more than enough to highlight the silent growl of frustration that pulled at the Master Assassin's mouth if any other had been there to see it.

Altair was not a man easily troubled.

He had seen men die in just about every way imaginable. He had been the _cause_ of countless men's deaths. He had seen unimaginable suffering and misery during his lifetime. Endured the death of his own father when he was but a boy. Witnessed the suicide of his one time best friend's father right in front of him. Watched as families were torn apart by war, women weeping while greedy men profited from the deaths of their husbands and sons. Seen innocents being slaughtered, while others stood aside and gawked in horror or fear, or worse enjoyment. Saw those sworn to protect those innocents instead using their power to abuse the most vulnerable for their own twisted enjoyment or for profit.

So, yes, he had seen his share of misery in this world, but as much as it sickened him it rarely phased him anymore. Certainly what he saw had never before lead to nightmares that left his shaking like a child in the darkness. These last few months however, his mind had been very troubled, and nearly every night his sleep (when he even allowed himself to sleep) had been interrupted just like this night.

It had been the most vivid dream so far to be sure. He could see the boy's face so clearly. The look of terror in his eyes before he fell. The way he reached for Altair, pleading. The boy's scream as he fell to his death still seemed to ring in his ears even though Altair was now awake.

The dreams were not always the same. In fact, there were many variations. In the beginning, they had not been nightmares at all. Instead they were memories. Memories of his disgrace. His humiliation and punishment at the hands of his former master. His offer for redemption, the deaths of nine Templar leaders in exchange for his own. But there was always one thing different in his dreams from his memories. In each of his memories that boy had been there, standing next to him. Sometimes in the garb of a novice assassin. Sometimes in clothing that Altair had never seen the likes of before.

Even stranger was his own feelings during these dreams. Instead of feeling hounded or threatened by the presence of the young man in his dreams, it felt as though the boy _belonged_ there. As though he had _always_ been there. Altair did not think he'd ever felt such kinship and comfort in his life as he had in those dreams with a man he had never met in the waking world. A young man that looked so much like him, they could have been brothers in another life.

But then, something had changed. The dreams had begun to shift. Often starting out with feelings of peace and contentment, but ending in death. Sometimes Altair's. Mostly the boy's, and somehow, that was always worse. Those were the ones that Altair always woke from nearly screaming.

Altair clenched his eyes shut, his hands curling into fists so tight his fingernails nearly cut crescent marks into his palms. He felt like he was going insane. Maybe he already was. Why else would he be having constant night terrors about someone he had never met? Someone who could not possibly be real. He knew this. He told himself this every night. That did not change the fact that the dreams were wrecking havoc with Altair's mind and his life.

He felt like he was on the verge of losing something he simply could not live without. Not merely an arm or leg, but the very heart that beat in his chest. The feeling plagued him constantly. When he was in the training yard helping to hone the skills of the novice assassins. When he was alone with nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. While he ate. While he slept.

At least he had managed to keep his growing distraction a secret from the rest of the brotherhood. Or if they did notice, none mentioned it in his presence. Malik sometimes gave him looks that bordered on worry. Once he even suspected Malik would ask him what was wrong but Altair was quick to change the subject when that happened. Though Malik was too intelligent not to know what he was doing, he let the matter go. As long as whatever was troubling him did not affect his duties as Mentor or his ability to follow the creed Malik would probably not push the matter. Altair was grateful to him for that. Though they were still not exactly friends they had found a mutual respect for one another after the trials they went through together and Altair trusted him completely.

He wasn't sure he could even describe to the other man what was wrong if Malik should ask him. No, he knew he couldn't. If he could not even understand it himself how could he expect Malik to understand? Especially when recently darker possibilities had begun to form in Altair's mind at what the cause of his problem might be.

After all, the dreams had begun to manifest soon after he had taken the Apple of Eden from his dead master's hands. Altair had only touched it that once, months ago, and it had showed him strange things he still did not understand. When the golden glow had finally faded from it he had taken it and locked it away in a chest in the secret room below the library. Refusing to touch, or even look at it since then.

Then the dreams had begun, followed by this terrible feeling of... longing...

Was this the beginning? Al Mualim had once said that the Apple was temptation given form. Greed and power could corrupt even the noblest of intentions. The Templars were proof enough of that. They sought peace but the means in which they tried to achieve it were evil. Which was why the Apple was so dangerous and needed to be protected. But what if he was falling prey to that temptation now? Were the dreams somehow born from a desire to use its power for himself?

That... did not seem right to Altair but the more he thought about it the more troubled he became because he could not see any other reason behind his feelings and no matter what he did he simply could not banish them. So he threw himself even more into his duties. He trained to the point of exhaustion. He meditated for long hours into the night, sometimes forgoing sleep entirely, trying to clear his mind. Yet the dreams always came and the feeling would not leave him. The terrible _need_ that was only growing rather than dissipating and was now accompanied by a... _desperation_...

Which was why in the middle of the night he suddenly rose up from his bed. His movements stiff and angry as he dressed and made his way quickly to the hidden chamber beneath the library where he had locked away the Apple of Eden for safe keeping. If asked, he would not remember the trip from his room to the library. Everything seemed to fade away and awareness did not return until he was at his destination. His features set in grim determination as he stood before the chest. Determined to prove to himself that the Apple held no sway over him. But wasn't the very notion a paradox? He was here to prove that the Apple was not influencing him, but if the Apple were not influencing him he would not need to be here.

A part of him insisted that he leave. Now. Before he took another step, before he made a decision that there was no going back from. He thought briefly of going to Malik. Malik would listen to him, no matter how crazy it sounded. Malik could advise him and Altair trusted the man's judgement. But the longer Altair stood there the more he was certain that this was what he needed to do.

And so Altair unlocked the chest and opened it. The apple was inside and it glowed faintly in the darkness. As though it had been waiting for him... Perhaps that should have been proof enough. That he should turn away now. But if there was one thing Altair was not, it was a coward. He needed to know... He reached out and touched the glowing Apple and as he did the golden light flared brightly. Blinding. When Altair's vision finally cleared he was... somewhere else.

* * *

When Desmond opened his eyes again the light over his bed had been dimmed considerably, as it always was during the night. Leaving it just bright enough in the room for the cameras to still see him but dark enough that it usually let him sleep without much difficulty. Without any kind of windows or clocks in the room it was the only way he had some idea of what time it was. He was even more grateful for the small consideration now as his eyes felt sore and sensitive, even the dimmed lights making him wince a little in discomfort.

He was grateful however that at least the headache he'd been suffering from earlier had eased considerably while he slept. Reduced to a dull persistent throbbing rather than feeling like his brain was trying to explode from his skull. Still Desmond sat up carefully, not wanting to push his luck and invite the headache to return with moving too quickly. Thankfully his vertigo and nausea also seemed to have abated which was a blessing. He still felt like crap, but at least he didn't feel like hammered shit.

It took him a moment to notice the tray of food that had been left for him sometime while he'd slept. The idea of eating right now made him grimace. Sure he didn't feel as bad as he had earlier, but that didn't mean much and his stomach was clearly telling him not to push it. His bladder was also telling him unless he wanted to add bedwetting to the indignities he'd suffered here at Abstergo he better get up and into the bathroom pretty damned soon.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and hissed softly as his bare feet came into contact with the cold metal floor. Someone had taken off his socks and shoes while he'd slept. Probably Lucy when she'd brought him his dinner. Well meaning as it might have been at the time Desmond couldn't help but grumble as he stumbled his way across the ice cold floor to the bathroom area of his cell.

* * *

Altair blinked away the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes when the light finally faded.

The room he found himself in was dark and completely alien. Unlike anything he had ever seen before. The floors. The walls. Everything looked wrong. Felt wrong. It was cold. Metal. Sterile. Even the air felt wrong. It smelled strange and tasted vile in the back of his throat with every breath he took. There were... objects in the room. Their surfaces made of strange combinations of glass, metal, and ceramic but he could not even begin to guess their purpose.

What was this place? Where was he? What had the Apple done to him?

He could not ponder these questions for long because a movement caught his eye from the doorway beyond the room. Quickly Altair moved deeper into the shadows. Extremely conscious of his weaponless state, but that did not mean that Altair was defenseless. He tensed. Waiting. Watching as the man walked into the room, apparently unaware of his presence. The young man's face in shadows, but... the clothes. The clothes were strange but Altair had seen similar garments before. But only...

Altair tensed, ready for an attack, as the young man drew closer. But when his hand shot out to grab the young man, intending to pin him to the wall and demand answers, Altair instead stumbled as his hand passed right _through_ the other man. Like Altair was a ghost. Not real. Not even his stumbling had caught the young man's notice. Cautiously Altair reached out again, more slowly, but received the same results. His hand passing cleanly through the young man's arm as though it were made of mist.

Was this yet another dream? If so it was the strangest he'd had by far yet.

Altair blinked in confusion as he watched the man wander through the strange room. Watched him relieve himself into a strange basin and then go over to a strange shelf where he fiddled with some knobs to make water run out of a spout. Altair was still trying to make sense out of something... anything... when the young man straightened, looked into the mirror before him, and Altair finally got a good look at the young man's face. Altair's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in spite of himself. As though he had not had enough shocks this evening.

It was _him_. The boy from his dreams. This must be just another dream then but... it did not feel like a dream. The sounds, tastes, smells, it all seemed far too real to Altair.

What was this?

All of a sudden the boy gasped sharply and whirled around so fast it made Altair take a step back in spite of himself, once more ready to defend himself... but it was not aggression in the young man's stance. It was fear. He held onto the shelf behind him, his eyes wide and darting around the room as though in a panic. But they never focused on Altair. As far as he could tell, he still could not see Altair... but then why had he reacted in such a way?

* * *

Desmond's heart was racing. His wide eyes darted around the small room.

Nothing. Nothing was there. But he'd sworn he saw...

Slowly, nervously, Desmond turned back to the mirror. His heart still beating hard as he dared to glance into the smooth surface again. Only his own reflection stared back at him. He could have sworn he saw someone else in the room. Standing behind him in shadow.

Desmond shook his head and cursed angrily under his breath.

Tired. He was just tired. Even though he sure as shit didn't feel very tired right now. In fact, thanks to that little burst of adrenaline, he felt wide awake. Cursing himself as an idiot, he'd probably never get back to sleep now, Desmond made his way slowly back into his bedroom. He pulled his t-shirt off over his head and let it drop to the floor on his way. Yeah, he probably wouldn't be able to sleep anyway now but at least he could try to get comfortable and maybe doze a bit. At least once he got under the covers...

Desmond froze in mid motion, his hands hovering where they'd been in the middle of unbuttoning his jeans. He was being watched... which was just fucking stupid because he was _always_ being watched, right? But this was different. This wasn't that weird feeling he got when taking a piss or shower with the cameras watching him. This was much more... it felt like someone was in the room with him.

But that was impossible. The bedroom was empty and he'd just been in the bathroom and there was no one... just his stupid imagination playing tricks on him... Despite knowing it was impossible the feeling only grew stronger, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, and slowly Desmond turned around.

Nothing. The room was completely empty. But somehow that didn't ease Desmond's mind in the slightest. In fact, it only made him feel worse.

Apparently his earlier headache decided that this was a good time to make a grand reappearance, and Desmond grit his teeth in pain, clutching at his forehead. The feeling of vertigo and nausea nearly sent him to his knees but he managed to stumble over to the bed instead and fall down on it. Still clutching his head as he curled into a small whimpering ball.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but even that didn't seem to stop the red. The bright glaring red all around him. A quick flash of blue... It hurt... it hurt... please make it stop...

Mercifully he blacked out a few moments later.

* * *

Altair watched as the young man seemed to compose himself, then made his way slowly back towards the other room. Undressing along the way.

"Wait!" He shouted and for a moment he was certain that the young man had heard him. Because the boy froze in the middle of undressing. He even turned around. Slowly. Uncertain. Fearful. At least Altair was not the only one feeling these things.

"Who are you?" Altair asked, but like before the young man merely looked through him. He did not see Altair. Did not hear him...

Then suddenly the young man clutched at his head, like he was in pain, and Altair _felt_ it as well. It was so sudden and intense that Altair could not even cry out. His eyes screwed shut but instead of darkness he saw white. A bright blinding white everywhere...

Despite how he tried to hold on he felt himself being torn away.

* * *

"Rise and shine, Mr. Miles. You'll be happy to know some changes were made to the Animus' software, now you can stay in even longer." Vidic's falsely cheerful and impatient tone was the first thing he woke to the next morning and Desmond groaned to himself. Vidic's enthusiasm was annoying at even the best of times, but the way Desmond felt right now it was all he could do to resist stabbing the old man in the throat with his fork or something.

"Yeah, yeah..." Desmond murmured to himself as he slowly pushed himself up and sat on the edge of his bed. Vidic seemed satisfied by his mobility and stalked out of the room, leaving him to his limited morning routine.

He felt like he hadn't slept a wink last night, his entire body felt sore as hell, and his head was still pounding. He knew he should probably say something. What had happened to him last night... it couldn't be normal. He still felt like hell and the idea of going back into the animus right now just made his stomach turn. What else could have done that to him? Lucy said the machine was safe but he'd sure as hell never had an attack like that before they'd started shoving him into that thing. What if it was messing with his brain? Giving him tumors or an aneurysm or something?

What if they didn't give a shit? Vidic had already made it quite clear that he didn't. He might take Desmond's protests as, well... and the idea of spending what was left of his life in a coma...

So Desmond forced himself to get up and made his way into his bathroom to take care of his business. An uneasy feeling settling over him as he stepped inside and glanced around the small space. Shaking his head to clear away the feeling he took a piss then went over to the sink to wash his hands and splash some cold water on his face to help him wake up. This time he refused to look in the mirror.

"We're waiting Mr. Miles!"

Desmond flinched and forced himself to return to the bedroom he picked up his shirt and pulled it on over his head. When he walked into the room with the animus, Lucy gave him a concerned look, but no more concerned than normal. Vidic looked at him impatiently, as normal.

Neither of them apparently cared that he looked like death warmed over.

The animus looked far more forbidding now than it ever had, but Desmond forced himself to lie down on it anyway. What choice did he have? The screen slowly rotated over his face and soon Desmond was thrust back into his ancestor's memories.

* * *

When the light finally faded again, Altair found himself on the floor of the hidden room beneath the library. Still shaking with pain and weakness like he'd never felt before. He forced himself to move, to push his arms underneath himself and sit up slowly. At least he could move again, that strange paralysis of before gone. Every joint, every muscle in his body, screamed in protest but Altair was determined. He finally made it to his knees and allowed himself to rest, staring down into the chest which held the Piece of Eden.

The Apple of Eden was where it had been before. Sitting in the chest, appearing harmless, innocent. No longer glowing. As though it had never been touched. As though nothing in the last few minutes had happened. Offering him no answers. Against his better judgement Altair reached out to the Apple again but this time his touch did nothing. It did not glow even the faintest amount and the master assassin swore in frustration.

Had it been real? That place? Did that mean... the boy, the boy from his dreams, was he real?

Though Altair had seen the power of the Apple first hand in Al Mualim's hands that did not mean he understood it. If it could make thousands believe to see the Red Sea part before them, then surely showing him a strange place and a strange young man he'd never met, yet somehow dreamed of, was not beyond its power.

But why?

Altair shook his head and slammed the chest closed, locking it once more. He never should have come here. The Apple was dangerous. It had offered him no answers, only more questions that could not possibly answer.


	2. Chapter 2

"For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."

**- Book of Genesis 3:5**

Chapter 2

Desmond was on his knees, hugging the porcelain throne like his life depended on it. He had already emptied the entire contents of his stomach, which hadn't been much since he still hadn't eaten anything since yesterday. But his stomach was still cramping badly threatening to bring up more bile, and maybe turn itself inside out for good measure just to torment him.

Desmond swallowed hard, pressing his forehead against the cool porcelain which, as disgusting as it was, felt wonderful against his overheated and clammy skin.

_"...pushing him too hard..."_

They were still arguing. Lucy and Vidic. Their voices filtered in faintly through the air duct in the bathroom from the conference room on the other side. From his position on the floor he could only catch a few words here and there, but it was enough for him to get the general idea. Actually he was surprised he could hear them at all over the thundering beat of his own heart.

_"...wasting time..."_

His session in the Animus today had not gone well. Understatement of the century. Everything had just felt... off. Much like it had the first time they had forced him into the machine. When he had fought against trying to access the memory they wanted. He hadn't fought against it this time, at least he didn't think he had, but still something had gone terribly wrong...

Desmond groaned in the back of his throat as he shifted slightly on the floor. It was cold. It was always cold. But at the moment it felt like that cold was bleeding into him, traveling up through his legs through his whole body. Soaking deep into his muscles. Into his bones. He was shaking and he wasn't sure if it had to do more with sickness or the temperature.

Maybe it was just fear.

He simply hadn't been able to sync with Altair's memories. After the first time he'd stopped fighting, after they'd decided to go back earlier, he'd been able to rather easily. In fact, it had almost felt second nature to him, once he'd gotten over the weirdness of it. It was almost like... the memories had accepted him... no that wasn't it. It was like _Altair_ had accepted Desmond riding shotgun.

But now it was different, and Desmond couldn't help but think there was something seriously wrong with him. The headache after he'd gotten out of the Animus yesterday had been bad enough. But then what he had seen... or thought he'd seen... that strange feeling of not being alone in an empty room. Then of course the migraine that had nearly brought him to his knees afterwards. Desmond swallowed hard. He couldn't write it off anymore. There was definitely something wrong with him.

Sure, he'd had migraines before. Who hadn't? A few times when he was a kid. He had seemed to be prone to them, but they came less and less as he got older. Now though...

_"... no good to us dead..."_

That didn't make him feel any better either.

It had to be the Animus. He hadn't had migraines as bad as this in years. Could it somehow be triggering them? Making them worse? What could he possibly do if that was the case? Vidic had already made himself clear what would happen to him if Desmond didn't cooperate. They'd put him into a coma, get what they wanted anyway, and then leave him to die.

He had tried... but whatever was wrong with him obviously it was having a bad effect on his ability to sync with the Animus. He had kept falling out of sync with the most recent memory they were trying to access and he'd been completely aborted from the Animus three times. On the third time Vidic was definitely pissed.

"I told you before, Mr. Miles. The only reason why you're still conscious was because this way is faster. If this performance keeps up, I may change my mind." Vidic had threatened and Lucy, bless her, had quickly stepped in. Stating maybe there was a problem with the new software and the fault was with the Animus itself, not Desmond.

Vidic hadn't been happy, at all, but at least he'd backed down. Ordering him back to his room even though it was only mid day while Lucy ran some tests on the Animus in the mean time. Desmond had given her a grateful look, feeling a little guilty about how abrupt he'd been with her yesterday, as he slowly got up.

Just like yesterday when he left the Animus it felt like his skull was splitting in two. He knew at this point he should probably say something about it. At least to Lucy. But with Vidic glaring daggers at him he'd decided it probably wasn't the best time. Instead he silently stood up and made his way to his cell, the room tilting dangerously as he walked but he made it inside. He even made it to the bathroom before his legs all but gave out beneath him and he found himself heaving his guts out into the toilet.

They must have known. How could they not with all the fucking cameras everywhere? But no one came in to check on him or anything. Maybe this was... normal?

Desmond wasn't sure how long he spent sitting on the floor in the bathroom. Thankfully no longer hugging the toilet, instead sitting back against the wall with his eyes closed, but feeling too weak to move. He even dozed off at some point. At least until a startled gasp woke him.

He heard a clattering sound and then the rush of footsteps towards him. He felt fingers pressed against his throat, checking his pulse, before they moved to his forehead instead. Slowly Desmond forced his eyes open but they were having trouble focusing. Everything seemed washed out, devoid of color. Everything except a strange blue fog that seemed to hover in front of his eyes.

"Oh Desmond..." Lucy's soft, worried, voice was proof enough of the identity of his visitor and Desmond felt himself relaxing, not even realizing how he'd tensed up in the first place. Well, who else would it be? There were a lot of answers to that. All of them bad. He should probably be grateful it was just Lucy, but he was having a bit of trouble feeling much of anything right now.

Lucy's began tugging at him. She was stronger than she looked, and managed to get him onto his feet even without much help from him.

"Come on. That's it. Easy now." The litany of comforting words continued as she half supported his stumbling form back into the bedroom and helped him lay down on his bed. Desmond smelled food and though his stomach churned in complaint thankfully he didn't feel the need to vomit again. So that's why she was here. She'd been bringing him his dinner. That clattering sound... had she dropped the tray of food when she saw the state he was in? Not like it mattered, he wasn't hungry anyway.

"Lucy... what's... wrong with... me..." He managed to slur but she quickly shushed him. He felt something cool and damp against his forehead and it felt like heaven. A wet cloth maybe?

"It's all right Desmond. You'll be all right." Maybe it was just him, but she didn't sound the least bit convincing. Like she didn't even believe it herself. He must have dozed off again because he didn't hear anything more.

Despite his deep exhaustion Altair had not been able to sleep after returning to his bed chamber that night. For hours he laid awake, staring at the ceiling above him while questions screamed in his mind like angry ghosts refusing to quiet. It seemed the more he tried not to think about what he had seen, the more focused on it he became. He could not even close his eyes because whenever he did so all he saw was that boy.

_Who are you?_ Altair's words echoed over and over in his head, driving him mad.

The dreams alone had been bad enough, but at least he could tell himself that they were just dreams. Strange. Disturbing. Distracting. But just dreams. Nothing more. What had happened last night had not been a dream. He did not know _what_ it was. A vision? A trick? An illusion?

A puzzle. A dangerous puzzle. One Altair was not even sure he wanted to solve.

And that uncertainty, that... fear... only frustrated and angered Altair more. He was not a coward. He'd never backed down from a challenge, never run from his fears, and even the thought of doing so now was perhaps what disturbed him most about the whole affair. But then this was not like any danger he'd ever faced before. This was not a physical enemy that could be overcome with blades and skill. This was an intangible enemy. His own mind betraying him and... how did one fight that?

When the first rays of dawn began to lighten the sky Altair gave up on the pretense of trying to sleep. A few hours lack of sleep was nothing new to him, especially in recent months, and he may as well find something productive to do if he would not use the time to rest.

Unfortunately, that was easier said than done.

"Is everything all right, Mentor?"

Altair was barely able to resist turning a glare on the young novice which would have made even grown men piss themselves. It was not the boy's fault, after all. It was just bad luck that the boy was the fourth person to ask him those exact words and the Master Assassin was becoming more than a little irritated hearing them. The only person Altair could blame for that is himself. For allowing his distraction to become so apparent that others had begun to take notice. Many others probably had noticed too, but it was only the few who were brave enough to ask.

"You should return to your studies, novice." Altair finally replied, his cool tone suggesting that the boy had overstepped his bounds. The young novice flushed and bowed hastily before hurrying away, and Altair turned his attention back to the practice ring where it had belonged all along. The training master had asked him to come and watch the sparring inside to determine which should be elevated in rank. Instead he had been caught staring off into nothingness, lost in his own thoughts, by a _novice_.

Unforgivable. This had to end.

Once the boys had finished sparring Altair spoke briefly with the training master before excusing himself. He made his way quickly to the library then, and word of his dark mood must have spread quickly because no one else dared to bother him or risk the wrath of their Mentor.

For most of the day, Altair was alone in the library. Apparently not even the Rafiqs were willing to share the space with him and his black mood. In a desperate attempt to quiet his mind Altair had finally given in and spent hours pouring through Al Mualim's documents and writings trying to find something that resembled answers to the questions burning in his mind.

It was obvious that his former Mentor had spent a great deal of time researching the Pieces of Eden. Enough that the old man had begun to learn how to use the one in his possession. Quite effectively from flawless use and wielding of its powers. The same powers beckoned to destroy him. Altair needed this knowledge. He needed to understand what the Piece of Eden had done to him last night. He needed to know if it was the cause of his nightmares, and if so, he needed to know how to put a stop to them.

The scholars had poured through Al Mualim's private documents after his death but they had found little. At least, little that had made sense at the time. Though not a scholar, Altair still hoped that there would be something. Perhaps the scholars simply hadn't found any answers because they hadn't had the right questions to ask to begin with.

So he hoped...

By nightfall Altair's hope was beginning to dim. Most of what he found were references to fables and myths. Practically children's stories. There were vague references to possibly other Pieces of Eden that might contain other strange powers. Stories of miracles that Al Mualim had hinted the Apple of Eden might have had a hand in creating. One fable in particular Al Mualim's writings focused heavily on. The tale of how the first humans were cast out from paradise for tasting fruit from the forbidden tree of knowledge.

Eden. Apples. Temptation and forbidden power. The links were obvious, and yet, it answered nothing. He was beginning to think whatever understanding Al Mualim had gained of the strange artifact, the former Mentor had taken it to his grave.

Al Mualim had told him that the Apple was capable of creating illusions. Perhaps that was all it was. An illusion. What he did not understand was why? Everything was so strange. If it was merely an illusion, where had it come from? Not his own mind that was for sure. It was nothing like he had ever experienced in his life. And it did not explain the dreams he'd been having even before he'd touched the Piece of Eden.

Altair sat back in his chair with a frustrated sigh, rubbing his forehead with one hand trying to dispel the headache that had been forming for a while behind his eyes. A product of too much time staring at scrolls in the fading light of his candle and his own frustration.

He closed his eyes and let his head drop back against the back of his chair. This night, just like many other nights, almost against his will his mind turned back in time. Back to the events that had ended only months ago but now sometimes felt like another lifetime. His disgrace. His rebirth... because that was what it had felt like. When Al Mualim had 'stabbed' him, it had felt real. He had truly thought he was dying. He had felt deaths embrace more closely than ever before or since. Of course it was just an illusion created by the Apple of Eden, but in a sense it had been truth. Because the man he had once been had died that day.

So much of what he'd thought he'd known had been challenged. Stripped away. Remade. Things were not as black and white as they originally appeared. So much was gray. So much of what he thought was truth had been false.

He'd felt lost. Alone. But, that really wasn't a new feeling to Altair, since he had felt alone for most of his life. He'd always felt different amongst his brothers. He was not like them, in many ways. It was not only his Eagle Vision that made him unique. Speed, agility, strength, and stamina, there was no other assassin who could match him in any of these. It was a simple truth. He had been trained by Al Mualim himself. He had far exceeded his peers for most of his life. He had been the youngest man ever to attain the rank of Master Assassin. He had believed that all of this made him better than all those around him. He had been arrogant. So arrogant. But he believed it because he had to. Because if he didn't... what else did he have? He was better, but he was different. The brotherhood was his life, but though he was one of them, he was alone. An outcast no matter how well he did, what he achieved. So he let himself believe it. Let himself believe he needed no one...

Of course he'd been wrong. It took him losing everything that had once mattered most to him to see it. Punished for his own arrogance and failure. Forced to submit to the authority of those he had once thought beneath him. Looking back at the man he was, it was a wonder it had not broken him. Or perhaps it had. But then, miraculously, everything had changed.

He had begun to see things differently. He had begun to change. Even Malik saw it, a man who had perhaps the most reason to hate him, had begun to trust him again. Suddenly he no longer felt alone. He began to understand how he was a part of something far greater than himself. Finally he had a reason to fight for more than just his own personal glory. Even the betrayal of Al Mualim, as hard as it had been, realizing how he had been lied to and used by a man he'd trusted as a father, Altair had never felt so connected to his fellow assassins. The remaining assassin's had banded with him. Trusted him. Even Malik. They'd fought against impossible odds, as brothers, and triumphed.

Yet once it was over...

It had taken him a few days after to realize something was wrong. To recognize the hollow empty feeling inside of him. When he had every reason to be proud, to feel camaraderie with his assassin brothers, he had never felt more alone in his life. The feeling all the worse perhaps because he now knew the difference. But it was missing... something was missing and Altair could not understand what. Something that had been with him all through the most troublesome time of his life. Like an extra limb, suddenly ripped away. Something that had made him feel whole for the first time in his life, gone.

That was when the dreams had begun.

He could not stand the feeling. He did not know what to do. How could he search for something if he did not even know what he was looking for? How could he find something he had lost but had no name for?

Altair's eyes snapped open and he glared at the ceiling as though it had personally insulted him. In one abrupt move the Master Assassin stood, sending the chair he'd been sitting in skidding back loudly, almost offensively, in the otherwise silence of the library. It probably would have earned him at least one pointed look from the Dai's if they had not already abandoned the area long ago. Driven out by their irate mentor's foul temper. Not that any of this mattered to Altair right now as he stalked down past the rows of shelves full of scrolls. None to witness his passage as he made his way back to the same destination as the night before when his frustration at his inability to understand had driven him to desperate measures.

Once more he stood in front of the small chest containing the Piece of Eden. His hands hesitating only momentarily before he threw open the lid. But unlike the previous night, the Apple slumbered quietly in its prison, resembling nothing more than a harmless ball of silver with strange etchings scrawled over its surface. It did not glow. Its surface was cold to the touch when Altair's fingers brushed it and he had to clench his fist to resist hurling the artifact against the wall in a fit of frustration resembling a child's temper tantrum.

Altair slowly sank to his knees and bowed his head.

"Please..." Was he truly reduced to this? Begging? But he did not know what else to do. He was slowly being driven mad. He needed answers. He needed to understand. He needed another piece of the puzzle... just one more piece...

That boy...

"Who is he? What is he... how is he a part of all this?"

Honestly Altair hadn't expected an answer. Yet as he knelt there in the silence a strange hum seemed to fill his ears. When he opened his eyes he saw the Piece of Eden glowing faintly with shimmering lines dancing across its surface. Altair barely dared to breathe, and refused to consider what cost he might be asked to pay for the Apple's 'cooperation', as he slowly reached out to touch the glowing orb.

He needed to know...

And just like the night before, the moment his fingertips brushed the warm metal his vision filled with a bright white light and when his vision finally cleared he was somewhere else.

It was the same room Altair had found himself in before. The same cold metal walls. The same strange unidentifiable smells. He was back, wherever this was, and Altair felt a thrill of hope pulse through him that he might finally receive some of the answers he sought.

The boy. He needed to find the boy.

As it turned out Altair did not need to seek very far. Just through the doorway he was there, lying on a bed, with his eyes closed and apparently asleep. Yet immediately Altair knew something was wrong.

The boy was ghastly pale. A light sheen of sweat covered his face and though he was asleep his features were not relaxed but pinched in pain. His breathing was shallow and uneven. When it hitched, a low sound of distress escaped the boy's throat; Altair felt it like a punch to the gut.

What was wrong with him? He had never seen the boy like this before. In his dreams, it was never like this. Altair quickly strode over to the side of the bed and knelt down. But when he reached out to touch the boy, like before, his hand merely passed through him as though he were a ghost. Altair cursed, clenching his fist at his own impotency. He could not touch him... but perhaps he could at least speak to him? He was certain the boy heard him in those last moments, _seen_ him if only for a moment.

"I need you to wake. Open your eyes." Altair said softly. Repeating the words over and over. There was nothing else he could do. He waited a long time. When the boy's eye lashes finally fluttered and parted, the Master Assassin felt his heart lurch a little in his chest. The boy blinked, once, twice, but they did not focus. They were glassy and almost vacant.

His eyes. The same as Altair's. He'd seen no other man with eyes like his before. No other man who could _see_ like he could... perhaps...

"Listen to my voice. See with more than your eyes. Concentrate. See beyond what is there." Altair instructed. Similar words Al Mualim had spoken to him when his former master helped him hone his eagle vision. At first he wasn't sure that the boy understood him. Did he even hear him? Perhaps he was asking far too much. Using the eagle vision was not a simple thing, and the state the boy was in... But then he saw a flicker in the boy's eyes, a subtle shift, the already odd gold coloring growing more intense and he knew the boy had done it.

It was as Altair had suspected. Not only did the boy look like him, he possessed eagle vision as well. Remarkable. Was it enough? Altair had his answer when the boy's head turned slightly and his eyes finally focused on him, something like surprise flickering across his features before he whispered:

"Altair...?" The syllables were weak, slurred, but Altair recognized them as his own name. It was... surprising. Everything about this was surprising in some way or another, but this seemed even more so for some reason. Because even though Altair had seen the boy many times in his dreams, he still had no idea who the boy was. Yet, somehow, this young man knew who he was. How did the boy know him?

"Who are you? How do you know me?" Altair asked, a little surprised how soft his own voice sounded to his ears. This was, for all intents and purposes, an interrogation after all. He had never been known to be all that 'gentle' with those he'd interrogated before. Harsh words and threats were more likely to get him the information he wanted. At the very least he should be suspicious, even angry, that this strange boy knew him. Forgetting the fact that Altair had nearly been driven mad by dreams of this strange young man, no one outside the Assassins should know his name and somehow this boy did.

Yet in his dreams Altair had always behaved... friendly... almost tenderly towards the young man. In his early dreams he had even welcomed the boy's presence. It was only later, once the dreams had turned dark and full of death that he'd become resentful of them. But that was because he simply could not stand seeing harm come to the young man and being forced to watch his death again and again...

It was no different now. The boy was clearly suffering, and in spite of himself Altair felt... concern...

"Who are you?" Altair repeated, coaxing gently.

"Desmond..."

Desmond? It was certainly a strange sounding name. But it was not unpleasant.

"How do you know me?" Altair asked, shifting a little closer to the boy so that he could hear him better. The boy... Desmond... his voice sounded so weak.

"Animus..."

Altair frowned. Animus? What did that mean? The word made no sense to him, and it only just began to occur to Altair that the boy might speak a language not his own. He had been certain that the boy could understand him, but what if he couldn't? Perhaps "Desmond" was not a name at all, just a random word in the boy's language.

"I do not understand. What does it mean, 'Animus'?"

"I saw... you... in the Animus..."The boy whispered, and Altair frowned deeply.

It did not make any sense, but at the same time it did. The boy's language was _not_ his own. Altair could hear that, now that he had gotten more than a one word answer from the young man. It was definitely not Arabic that the boy spoke, and the young man's accent was like nothing he'd ever heard either. The language was familiar. It sounded similar to the language that the Crusaders spoke, yet at the same time not.

But what truly shocked him was that even though Altair did not know what language the boy spoke, somehow he _understood_ it all the same. He heard the foreign words, but they seemed to echo in his mind, and it was the echo that Altair understood. It made no sense to him but it was the only way he could describe it.

Altair decided he could ponder this new mystery later, and simply counted it a blessing that they could somehow understand each other. It was more important right now what the boy said. The animus, he said. Desmond said that he _saw_ him in the animus. Was it like how Altair saw Desmond in his dreams?

"What is the Animus?"

"Don't know... a machine... lets me see memories... genetic memories..."

Altair frowned. Even understanding most of the words he did not understand what Desmond was talking about. Before Altair could ask, Desmond continued speaking. The boy's eyes growing a little vacant again and not really looking at him anymore.

"They're making me... they're looking for something... your memories... I don't want to... it hurts..."

Altair's worry was spiking again as the boy rambled on making less and less sense. Who were 'they'? What were 'they' looking for? What were they doing to the boy? Were they torturing the boy for information? What did that have to do with Altair? They had never met before, except in his dreams. Altair was sure of it. Yet the boy said that he'd _seen_ him. And memories? What did that mean?

"Who are 'they' Desmond? Why do they want to hurt you?" Altair asked, hoping to focus the boy's rambling to give him a few more answers. So far the answers Desmond had given him had only raised more questions.

"Abstergo... they found me... took me... because of my ancestor..."

"Because of your..." Altair frowned in confusion, and then his eyes grew wide. It could not be. It was too insane. Impossible. It could not possibly be...

"Who is your ancestor?" Altair whispered, and Desmond's eyes finally focused on him again. Eyes just like his own...

"You are."

Him. Desmond was his... Impossible. Insane. But hadn't Altair wondered more than once if this boy, Desmond, could possibly be related to him somehow? The way they looked so similar. Their faces. Their eyes. So much the same. Even the Eagle Vision. It made _sense_ that they would be related somehow. Much more sense than a completely random person who looked practically his twin with a trait Altair only knew he and his father to possess.

But... ancestor...

The room. The strange objects he'd never seen before. The strange clothing. The words Desmond spoke that Altair did not understand. The idea was becoming more and more frightening the more real the possibility seemed.

"What year is this?"

Desmond blinked at him, as though confused by the question for a moment before he answered.

"2012."

Before Altair could do more than reel from the new information a sudden sound behind him had the Master Assassin whirling and dropping into a defensive stance. An older man stepped through the door, but looked straight through Altair as though he was not there. Instead the old man's eyes focused on the boy lying on the bed, and the look in those eyes was not kind. Altair did not relax, if anything his tension grew. He did not like the way the man looked at Desmond.

"Get up Mr. Miles! We have a lot of work to do." The old man proceeded to bark at the boy and Altair's eyebrows rose in spite of himself. Did the man not see the condition of the boy lying in the bed? Altair was not certain that Desmond could even sit up on his own much less stand on his own two feet at the moment.

The master assassin's eyes flickered down to the object of his worry. He saw the boy flinch and then blink rapidly. Looking almost as if... he were waking from a dream. An expression of confusion crossing his features as his eyes, no longer the intense gold of the Eagle vision, turned to the old man speaking to him. They did not so much as flicker in Altair's direction.

"Wha... Vidic...?" Desmond slurred, blinking owlishly, before he groaned in obvious pain. His eyes screwing shut and the hand suddenly clutching at his temple indicated the source of it. Though what was more astonishing was the pain Altair began to feel blooming behind his own eyes, intense and unforgiving. Just like... before... the first time Altair had 'returned' to his own time after seeing Desmond.

No. He could not leave yet.

"I'm not impressed, Mr. Miles. I said get up. Now!"

Altair barely heard over the sudden ringing in his ears. Still he could barely believe what he heard. Did he think the boy was 'faking' this? Was he a blind fool?

"I can't... you bastard..." Altair heard the boy mutter through clenched teeth. Altair agreed with the assessment. Unfortunately it was the last thing Altair heard. Or at least, the last thing he understood.

He heard the older man snap back with venom filled words that he no longer understood but set the Master Assassin even more on edge.

The world began to blur and brighten. The white light filling in around the edges of his vision. He was going to be ripped away whether he wanted to or not it seemed. He was only able to make out vague shapes as more men entered the boy's cell. For there was no doubt in Altair's mind anymore that's what it was. They grabbed Desmond and proceeded to haul him off the bed and drag him from the room.

"No! Leave him be!" Altair shouted, or at least he tried to. He could not hear his own voice and he could no longer move.

"Altair!"

It was the last thing Altair heard, Desmond's voice filled with pain and fear echoing in his ears, and he wasn't sure if it was even real or not.

Altair awoke on the floor, unsure how much time had passed since losing consciousness. He was once more in the hidden room underneath the library. The cold stone floor certainly not a very comfortable surface to be lying on, but for a long time he could not bring himself to move.

He had never felt this exhausted before and that was certainly saying much. Even drawing air into his lungs seemed almost too much of an effort. His head felt like it had been cleaved in two and he actually lifted one of his hands to his forehead to make sure that it hadn't been. Even that small movement seemed to sap all the energy he had as his hand dropped back to the floor and his vision swam.

Sheer will kept him from slipping into the enticing darkness that was edging around his vision once more. He concentrated on breathing. The beating of his own heart. Though he remained still he carefully catalogued various aches, but other than weakness and the intense headache he seemed to be physically unharmed.

Thankfully despite the ache in his skull his memories seemed perfectly intact.

"Desmond..." Altair whispered the name aloud, almost unconsciously. Almost as though he needed to hear it with his own ears to prove to himself it was real. That boy. His descendant. It was still a little difficult to swallow, but he could think of no reason why Desmond would lie to him. If it had been a lie, surely any other lie would have been more believable than telling him that. It was so unbelievable it must be the truth.

But it still did not explain how Altair had been dreaming of his descendent of more than nine hundred years into the future. Desmond had said something about a 'machine'. Something about memories, and that the people holding him prisoner were doing it _because_ Altair was his ancestor. They were connected somehow. That much was obvious...

Altair suddenly froze.

Connected... the dreams... perhaps they had been trying to tell him something all along. In the dreams he had seen Desmond walking beside him, running beside him, fighting beside him, always there, through his disgrace and every step towards his redemption. Was it possible he _had_ been there somehow? So often Altair had felt... like he was not alone during that most difficult time of his life. The feeling had kept him from going mad and helped push him to see his task through to the bitter end no matter what obstacle was placed in front of him.

But then the feeling had suddenly... vanished... and it had nearly driven him mad. He had been in _mourning_ and he had not even realized it. Like he had at the loss of his father so long ago, his only family, but if possible, deeper. The dreams had tried to show him. As he watched Desmond die again and again. It was not some intangible, unnamed, thing that he had lost. It was _him_. Desmond.

Altair growled viciously and struck the floor where he laid with his fist.

He had his answer. The Apple had done as promised. It had answered his questions. As he should have known, the 'forbidden knowledge' brought him no comfort. Because now that he knew Desmond existed there was no way he could make himself forget. He now knew that the boy had been captured, imprisoned, most likely tortured and was being used because of _him_ and there was nothing Altair could do about it. Desmond could be killed, because of him, by his captors once they had gotten what they wanted from the boy, or if he failed to give them what they needed. The boy had looked like he had one foot in the grave already, and there was nothing Altair could do...

Altair's eyes snapped open as ice began to fill his veins. Altair remembered the exact moment when Desmond's 'presence' had left him. Desmond said that his captors had been 'looking' for something in his 'memories'. The map. Shown to him by the Apple of Eden after the death of Al Mualim. That was when Desmond had 'left' him. It was no great leap to guess 'They' had found what they wanted... but that had been months ago...

Perhaps Desmond was already dead...

Altair shook his head. No. Whatever had happened had not happened yet. It would not happen for nine hundred years! There had to be something he could do. Something...

Altair took a deep breath and forced himself to move. He'd rested long enough. It took two tries before he managed to brace his arms underneath him and push himself up from the floor. His vision wavered and the room seemed to tilt to the side but he managed to stay conscious and after a few more moments forced himself to his feet.

He needed help. Council. Someone with more wisdom than him. Altair could think of only one man he would trust enough with this. Malik. Malik would probably think he was crazy. Maybe he was. But Altair could not simply ignore what he had seen.

Tomorrow he would ride to the Jerusalem Bureau to see Malik.


End file.
